


love will have it's sacrifices

by callunavulgari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Carmilla Fusion, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Female Derek Hale, Female Stiles Stilinski, Femslash February, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22958413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: “So,” Allison starts, biting her lip. “You’re telling me that you think your roommate is a werewolf.”“Yes.”“Who’s killing girls around campus.”“Yes.”“Because she… leaves her dirty razors in the bathtub.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 1
Kudos: 115





	love will have it's sacrifices

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic for [femslash February in 2015](https://callunavulgari.tumblr.com/post/106940204380/natvanles-i-just-thought-to-myself-all-of-a). I'd just finished Carmilla, I was still at the height of my Teen Wolf craze, and I ended up writing the majority of it between February and June of that year and then just... stopped. And I'm going to be really honest here, at this point I've given up on actually finishing it. So this is it. At the very bottom is a brief synopsis of how it would have ended. It's raw, unpolished, and was written in the style I was fond of five years ago.

>   
>  _"I just thought to myself, all of a sudden, that we had something in common. A natural chemistry, if you will. And I had a feeling that something big was going to happen. To both of us. That we were, in fact, meant to be together."_

  
It’s been a week since Stiles drove her ramshackle, beat to hell and back old jeep onto campus, shrieking Blink 182 out the window and thinking she was on top of the world.

Exactly one week. 

Seven days. 

Seven days of settling into a dorm room that smelled faintly of cheetos, lipstick, and sweaty socks. Seven days of bumping into strangers and getting lost on her way to freshman orientation. Seven days of eating her lunch in the quad with Scott, because it’s still a sunny sort of September, so why not flop down on the grass instead of cluster in the cafeteria with the rest of the flock?

It’s been seven days and the closest Stiles has gotten to getting laid was two days in when her chem partner pitched head first into her lap and promptly vomited french fries and peppermint schnapps all over Stiles’ brand new jeans. 

To say that the excitement of being a college student has worn off is the understatement of the century.

Her roommate is okay though, even if she does come home at three in the morning drunk off her ass entirely too often. The first few days, Stiles had actually gotten out of bed and helped Erica hold her hair back, before she realized that if she did that every time, she’d never get any sleep. So now when Erica comes stumbling into their room each night, Stiles just kicks the trash bin in her direction and rolls right back over.

Tonight though, Erica’s got it in her head to drag Stiles out with her. A week and a half ago, Stiles would have been all over that. All over it. Pretty girls, hot guys, a boatload of shitty beer, and music cranked so loudly that her eardrums were in danger of bursting? Hell to the yes.

Unfortunately, the kegger that Scott dragged her to the first night on campus was still fresh in her memory.

“Yeah, how about no.”

Erica narrows her eyes in Stiles’ direction, crossing her legs, unbothered when the motion makes her leather skirt ride dangerously high up her thighs. “I know you’re going to say yes eventually, Stilinski. Just do us both a favor and make that happen sooner rather than later.”

Stiles swivels around in her chair, keeping half an eye on the project she’s working on. A week in and Stiles is already regretting her decision to set out for a journalism major straight from the get go. Now Stiles understands the pitying look that her guidance counselor had given her when she proudly stated that she already knew what she was going to be getting her degree in.

“Not happening. Tequila coming out your nose is a pretty effective learning lesson. Give me a month or so and I’ll think about it.”

Erica rolls her eyes, bouncing in place on her mattress, which has the desired outcome of shifting Stiles’ focus from the computer screen to Erica’s very ample chest. When she finally tears her eyes away — a good ten seconds too late — Erica is grinning, her teeth very white and very sharp. “Don’t make me call McCall, you know he’ll be over here in 2.5 seconds if it means making up for the last party he took you to.”

Stiles sighs. Erica isn’t wrong. Scott’s been making with the sad puppyface all week, flinging party invitations at her left and right. She’s pretty sure that he thinks if he gives her a good party going experience it’ll make up for the last one, which — fair — it probably would. Especially if it got her laid. Goddamn. Stiles came here with _expectations_. Virginity losing expectations. But she’s nothing if not stubborn.

“C’mon,” Erica purrs, leaning closer to Stiles and winking, skin smelling of perfume and whatever liquor she’d been pregaming with. “I know for a fact that both of your little crushes will be there. You’ll have your pick.”

Stiles crinkles her nose, hating Erica for knowing her weak spots. Like Lydia, queen of the science and mathematics buildings, whose brain could only be dwarfed by her ability to run in six inch stilettos. And Malia, who was almost always involved in some kind of physical activity, but smiled like a goddamn sun ray and punched as hard as a solar flare.

“Fine,” she agrees, reaching over to shut her laptop.

Erica beams. “Excellent! Now get your scrawny ass over here, I call dibs on picking your clothes!”

.

The party is fantastic. Stiles spends most of her time with Scott after she loses Erica forty minutes in to a pair of pretty boys with popped collars. She does four shots and drinks half of a truly horrible beer, and cuts herself off once she’s pleasantly tipsy. 

It’s a great night. 

Stiles wakes up the next morning with nary a hangover in sight and huddles comfortably under her covers for a good ten minutes before she finally slides out from under the sheets.

Erica’s bed is ruffled, the covers pulled up over her head. Stiles snorts. 

“Shouldn’t have done so many shots,” she singsongs, snagging the corner of the bedspread and yanking it back, good-natured jabs on the tip of her tongue—

Erica isn’t there.

Her morning gets a lot less awesome after that.

.

“People don’t just _disappear_ , Scott!”

On screen, Scott’s pixelated face twists in sympathy, nose scrunching up with something that could be either worry or nausea. 

Week two of college is going about the same as the first, with the notable difference of a missing roommate. Stiles has called around everywhere, talked to anyone that could have had information about Erica, even tracking down the quiet junior that Erica had been crushing on in the hopes that the girl had finally gone for it and was just holing up in his dorm room.

No dice. Boyd hadn’t seemed impressed initially, but upon learning the reason for Stiles accosting him in the cafeteria, his face had twisted with _actual_ emotion.

Yesterday Stiles had even gone so far as to storm Scott’s house, demanding that his fraternity brothers produce Erica from wherever they’d hidden her. All that had gotten her was banned from Scott’s place. It wasn’t her fault that she’d punched Jackson. He was being an asshole. Who even jokes about missing girls? That just wasn’t okay.

“Maybe she really did just go home, Stiles,” Scott whispers, looking nervously over his shoulder when one of his new buddies yells something down the hall. “It happens. A lot of people get cold feet and drop out.”

Stiles snorts, doodling an evil lizard in the margins of the lit essay she’s supposed to be working on. “Not Erica, man. She loved it here. And even if she did — why wouldn’t she come back for, I don’t know, any of her possessions? I’m telling you, something’s not right.”

“Yeah, well, Stiles. I know how you get about stuff like this. Remember how in fifth grade you spent like six weeks trying to get me to believe that Mrs. Johnson was a witch?”

Stiles grimaces. Mrs. Johnson had an herb garden in her backyard and always offered Stiles pie whenever she walked over to Scott’s place. “And I stand by that belief to this day.”

“Stiles, she was ninety-two years old!”

“She offered me pie!”

Scott’s look of incredulity is what clues her in on the fact that maybe that shouldn’t have been her first point. She should have gone with the herb garden thing. Or maybe all the cats. Then segued to the pies.

She’s about to explain that to him when she hears the door click open behind her.

“Oh my god,” she cries, pushing away from the desk so quickly that her chair shoots back a good three feet. “Erica—”

It’s not Erica standing there. 

It’s _really_ not Erica.

“Scott,” she whispers, groping in the direction of her computer until she hits the keyboard. “I’m gonna call you back.”

There’s a tall, busty, glamazon standing just inside her doorway. Stiles loves Scott, she really does, but she does not want him to witness whatever is about to happen here. God, it’s like she walked onto the set of a porno. Maybe someone hired her a stripper.

“Stiles—” 

She firmly hits the end call button.

“Hi,” she says, a bit breathlessly. “Sorry, I— who are you?”

The girl smirks, one perfect eyebrow arching effortlessly. Heat immediately rushes to Stiles’ face as she takes it all in - the leather jacket, tight black jeans, and the tank top that’s clinging to a perfect set of tits. She clears her throat, eyes darting back up to the stranger’s face, which, wow, big mistake. This girl’s eyes are intense, almost smoldering, a shade that Stiles can’t really distinguish in the lamplight.

“Derek Hale,” the girl says, finally moving away from the door and crossing the room in five glorious steps . She drops onto Erica’s bed like she belongs there.

“Okay, Derek. _Derek_. Really? That is—” Derek narrows her eyes, scooting backwards until she’s pressed up against Erica’s pillows. “—A perfectly reasonable name that I will not judge you for at all, because I am no stranger to weird names. Um.”

What was she saying? 

Right.

“Why are you in my room?”

Derek stops flipping disinterestedly through one of Erica’s Playgirl’s and levels Stiles with a look that makes her last glare look like a smile. Stiles lived with her dad for eighteen years, she knows exactly what that look is saying about Derek’s thoughts on Stiles’ intelligence. This time though, she’s pretty damn sure that she didn’t do anything to deserve it.

“What?” Stiles protests, fiddling with a pencil that’s rolled too close to the edge of her desk. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question! I mean, I sure didn’t order a stripper— not that I think you’re a stripper, but—”

“I’m your new roommate,” Derek interrupts before Stiles can dig herself any deeper. 

“What?”

Derek sighs, flinging a magazine off the bed and rolling onto her stomach. “I said—”

“Dude, I know what you said. But it must be a mistake. I have a roommate.”

“That’s really not what they told me,” she tells Stiles, grimacing in her general direction. “Are you going to be this insufferable all the time, because it might not be too late for me to demand a refund.”

Stiles scoffs, forgetting for a moment that she’s talking to an eighteen on a scale of one to ten and says, “Bitch please, you wish you could find better than me.”

Derek snorts, cracking a small smile, her eyes sparking with amusement. “Oh, _really_?”

Stiles flashes her the brightest, fakest smile that she can come up with on short notice. “Really.”

Derek lets out a short bark of laughter. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to prove it to me.”

Somehow, Stiles has a feeling that she just walked into a trap. 

.

Forget Stiles being a crappy roommate. Derek is the _worst_ roommate.

Derek leaves razors clogged with hair on the floor of the tub where Stiles could easily shred her feet if she’s not looking, plays loud music when she really shouldn’t, and keeps bloody steaks in the mini fridge that Stiles’ dad gave her as a graduation present.

She plays at being surly 24/7, has people that may or may not be fuck buddies constantly trailing in and out of their room like it’s some kind of convenience store, and has an awful habit of doing a zillion half-naked push-ups and crunches at half past five in the morning _right next to Stiles’ bed_.

And it’s not like there’s a lot of room between their beds, so where else would she work out like a crazy person, but come on. That’s what the gym is for. Who cares that it doesn’t open til nine. Derek can wait til nine like a normal person instead of forcing Stiles into an immediate and unwanted state of irritation and arousal at ass o’clock. 

So no, Stiles is not entirely happy about the roommate situation. Even if she does want to lick Derek Hale all over. 

“Why don’t you just talk to her about it?” Allison asks hesitantly, perched halfway onto Derek’s bed. Standing at her side, Lydia snorts, continuing her examination of her nails as if it’s the most interesting thing in the room.

Any other time, Stiles would be overjoyed at having Lydia within five feet of her bed. There would be fireworks and rainbows and maybe puppies, because Lydia is a goddess. Lydia is a queen. She deserves a little bit of worship. Preferably five feet to the left with her lovely hair spread all over Stiles’ pillow and her thighs wrapped around Stiles’ face.

Today, however, the only reason Lydia is anywhere near Stiles is because her best friend just so happens to be Stiles’ RA. And since Stiles had interrupted whatever plans they’d had, Lydia had been forced to tag along, which, judging by the put upon sighs that emerges from her perfect lips every five seconds, she is not very happy about.

“She’s a serial killer, Allison. There’s no other explanation. You don’t just talk to people about their homicidal tendencies.”

Allison looks dubious, exchanging a look with Lydia. With great prejudice, Lydia rolls her eyes back. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

“I most certainly am not,” Stiles hisses, tugging her spreadsheet from between Allison’s lax fingers. She taps her nail against a column. “Look here! She’s got super strength! And growls all the time. Last night was a full moon and she was notably absent, okay?”

“I thought you were arguing that she was a serial killer,” Lydia cuts in, still not looking away from her nails. She fans her fingers out, then frowns, rubbing some wayward dirt off of her cuticle. “Because it sounds to me like you’re arguing for werewolf.”

Stiles scoffs. “Potato, potahto. Werewolves are all serial killers, haven’t you seen a horror movie?”

“So,” Allison starts, biting her lip. “You’re telling me that you think your roommate is a werewolf.”

“Yes.”

“Who’s killing girls around campus.”

“Yes.”

“Because she… leaves her dirty razors in the bathtub.”

“Ye— no!” Stiles bares her teeth at Allison, well aware that she’s beginning to act like a lunatic. Maybe she should just hide in Scott’s room for the rest of term so Derek’s wolfy ways don’t rub off on her. She tugs at her hair, annoyed into the realization that on top of everything else, she’s forgotten her monthly haircut. “I’m telling you she’s a werewolf because she is one! Haven’t you been paying attention at all?”

“Okay,” Lydia interrupts, finally tearing her attention away from her nails and abruptly leveling an intense glare in Stiles’ direction. “You have wasted enough of our afternoon. You are going to talk to your roommate about her dirty razors and leave Allison alone. We are going to go shopping. Wear something silver if you’re that worried about it.”

And with that, she drags Allison out of the room, blowing past a surprised looking Derek, who’d apparently been in the middle of opening the door.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. 

“What was that about silver?” Derek asks, cocking her head like a confused puppy. 

God, she’s totally a werewolf.

“Never you mind,” Stiles sing-songs, smiling wide in an attempt to show as many clenched teeth as possible. 

.

“She’s not a werewolf, Stiles,” Scott tells her as he chews, flashing her an enticing glimpse of the bologna sandwich he’d scrounged from their fridge. The Zeta Omegas have apparently lifted the ban on her temporarily, but from what Isaac told her, it’s just on a trial basis. They’ll still kick her out if she makes any threatening moves toward Jackson.

“She is,” Stiles protests, letting her own bologna sandwich flop back onto the paper towel that’s serving as her plate. “She totally is. You just don’t see the things that I see.”

“Just because I haven’t seen her naked—”

“That’s not what I meant!” Stiles yelps. “Ugh! I just meant that you haven’t seen all the creepy things she does, Scott! I swear, yesterday she actually stalked me to that mixer. I could see her standing creepily at the edges of the party all night.”

“Then file a report for sexual harassment.” Scott shrugs.

Stiles sighs. “Oh, if only.”

Scott gives her that look again, the one that means she’s said something weird. Her dad had perfected it when Stiles was five, and she’s always had her suspicions that he taught it to Scott when he realized that using Scott as her conscience might prevent her from doing something stupid. So far it’s got a 1 in 3 success rate, so her dad’s theory did at least have some truth to it.

“Look, Scotty, I’m just saying. Erica didn’t just leave the school and you don’t think it’s just a little suspicious that Derek just came and replaced her like that?”

Scott’s grimaces. “I’m pretty sure that’s how replacing roommates works, but hey, I might be wrong.”

“You are wrong! Something’s not right about her, okay? Sometimes her eyes flash weird colors and her teeth look like they’re getting sharper,” Scott raises his eyebrow, mouth opening and she flails at him, hissing, “And no, Scott, I have not had any sort of mushrooms in my diet recently — something just isn’t right.”

“You could always just ask the other girls that went missing,” Scott shrugs, and Stiles blinks, her brain whirring into standby.

“What.”

Scott blinks back at her, stuffing the last of his sandwich into his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, mouth full to bursting. “Isaac and Boyd were talking about it a couple days ago. Heather and.. Kiley? Kara? No, it was Kira. I think.”

Stiles gapes at him, and then, because seriously, hauls back and punches him in the shoulder as hard as she can. “And you didn’t think that was important information?!”

Oh my god. This changes everything. She’d heard about Emily, who’d gone missing the same way, never to be seen again, but to know that there are witnesses? People who came back from getting kidnapped?

“I need to talk to them,” Stiles breathes, staring at Scott. Mind made up, she leans forward, clapping her hands onto both of Scott’s shoulders. “Scott, you need to find them for me.”

.

Meeting the two girls doesn’t go well. 

Stiles’ first mistake was having them meet her in her dorm room, where just as she was getting somewhere with Kira, Derek sauntered in and scared them off.

Heather was quiet and subdued the entire time, wringing her hands in her lap and not meeting Stiles’ eyes for the entire duration of their little meeting. Kira, on the other hand, was a godsend. Awkward and completely adorable, grinning shyly at Scott when he walked her into Stiles’ room.

She’d told Stiles about her dreams, about bardo and lizard monsters and pretty girls in white dresses. Things had been going great. Until Derek.

“Are you kidding me right now?” Stiles hisses as Kira vanishes around the corner right on Heather’s heels. “You have got to be kidding me. You can be a dick any other time, but do you really have to do it right when I was finally getting somewhere on this?”

From her position flopped across her bed, Derek arches an unimpressed eyebrow. “Sorry, Nancy Drew.”

And that’s it. Nothing else. No explanation for the way she’d acted. Zilch. Nada. Ziiiip.

“I can’t fucking believe you.”

Derek snorts. “And I can’t believe you. You go around uprooting old grief for the sake of your righteous crusade and get upset when things don’t go your way. C’mon Stilinski, you make a cute detective, but for gods sake, know when enough is enough.”

Stiles shoots to her feet, entire body trembling. “Enough will never be enough,” she snarls through gritted teeth, fists clenched at her sides. “Not until I figure out what you did with Erica!”

Derek goes still all over, her eyes going from vaguely amused to downright hostile in 2.5 seconds. Slowly, with the sense that she’s just dug her own grave, Stiles watches Derek rise from the bed. One step forward and Stiles takes two steps back, until her back is thumping up against the door, Derek a wall of heat in front of her.

She’s definitely not imagining the faint blue flashes of color mixing in with Derek’s regular scheduled irises. No way, no how. Stiles laughs nervously when Derek hooks a hand into the collar of her shirt, hauling her closer until they’re sharing the same air.

“What I did to her, huh,” Derek hums, eyes flicking down when Stiles licks her lips. She’s practically purring. Her voice, usually dry as the Sahara, is husky and honey sweet. “And what _exactly_ do you think I did to her, Stiles?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles breathes, heart pounding away in her chest. “Kidnapped her for your weird werewolf rituals probably.”

For a split second, there’s that flash of blue again, Derek’s nostrils flaring, but then she’s back to normal, actually smiling. “Werewolf rituals?” she asks, voice still saccharine sweet and positively dripping with derision. “God, do you even hear yourself?”

Stiles narrows her eyes and shoves, refusing to be cowed when Derek doesn’t budge beneath her hands. It’s like trying to move a brick wall. God, worst crush ever.

By the looks of it, Derek knows exactly what kind of effect she’s having on Stiles right now. Derek’s face is bright, her cheeks flushed, like she’s relishing it, eyes dipping back down to Stiles’ lips even as her fingertips skate down Stiles’ sides, tucking the edge of her thumb beneath the band of Stiles’ sweatpants.

Stiles inhales shakily, hands trembling at her sides. “I stand by my statement. You’re totally a werewolf and you’re definitely kidnapping those girls. I just can’t figure out what you’re doing to them.”

Derek laughs, reaching up to tuck a single strand of short hair behind Stiles’ ear and leaning in, until her lips are brushing Stiles’ throat.

“And what,” she whispers, “Would you like me to do to _you_?”

“Holy god,” Stiles breathes, and then the door is exploding open behind her, sending her crashing into Derek, who, with a huff of surprise, goes tumbling to the floor with her.

After that, everything is a bit of a blur.

.

Allison Argent has a bow. Not a cutesy bow to pull her hair back either, but an honest to god spring loaded crossbow that she currently has pointed directly at Derek’s throat.

“Make one wrong move,” she warns Derek, eyes narrowed dangerously. “And this punches a hole straight through your spine.”

Derek, who is glaring, but looking remarkably nonplussed for someone tied up with what looks like a rope covered in flowers on Stiles’ bed, quirks an eyebrow and says, “Argent. I know you’re not stupid enough to think that that would kill me.”

“My arrows are dipped in wolfsbane and mistletoe,” Allison replies sweetly. 

Derek snorts. Scott, who is lurking in Stiles’ doorway, wrings his hands. He actually wrings his hands, like a fretful maiden in a period piece.

“Would someone like to tell me what’s going on? And why Jackson of all people just tied up my roommate with Snow White’s bondage gear?” Stiles asks, shifting her weight until she’s sitting mostly on her desk. 

“Sorry, he was the only one in the common room when we figured it out,” Scott says, apologetically. Jackson had left the moment that they’d gotten things under control, but just the idea of him in her room for any stretch of time leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

“Figured what out?”

“We were talking about your… problem,” Allison says, eyes not leaving Derek’s. She makes the word ‘problem’ sound like ‘paranoia’. “And Scott mentioned Derek’s eyes.”

“So?” Stiles says. “I already told you that Derek was a werewolf. You didn’t believe me.”

“I didn’t believe you when your only evidence was clogged razors.”

Derek snorts and Stiles turns on her immediately, glaring. “Don’t even. You’re a hairy animal who has no sense of hygiene.”

“My sense of hygiene is perfectly fine,” Derek insists in a mild voice. “Shaving is very hygienic.”

“Not when you leave your razors where other people can step on them!”

“Stiles!” Allison shouts, the tip of her arrow wavering like she’s thinking about putting it through Stiles instead. “Not the time!”

“Fine,” Stiles grumbles, leaning back until she’s thumping up against the computer. It’s good. Bracing. “So you realized that I was right and you were wrong and you just, what? Had a crossbow and flower bedazzled ropes just lying around and figured, hey, these might be good to use against a crazy werewolf serial killer!”

“Her family hunts our kind,” Derek says, not breaking her staring match with Allison. 

“For good reason,” Allison adds, pointedly.

“And I’m not a serial killer.”

Stiles blinks. “You’re a werewolf hunter?”

Allison nods. “It’s a long story that you can bear to hear another time. Now, I believe you had some questions for Ms. Hale?”

For a moment, Stiles just stares at her. Scott is still shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other in the doorway, like he has to pee. It’s distracting. The first question that comes to mind is, so are you actually into bondage?

Somehow, she doesn’t think that’s the question Allison was getting at. No matter how fetching Derek looks tied up.

Stiles blinks, staring at Derek. What would she have to ask—

Derek chooses that moment to break her stare off with Allison, turning her head so that she’s looking straight at Stiles. She looks hot like this, her face still flushed from the fight. There’s a tuft of hair clinging to the corner of her mouth and she’s looking at Stiles like she wants to eat her. Still. It’s the sort of look that could mean death by evisceration, but is just as likely to mean an entirely different dining experience.

Oh. The girls.

Stiles straightens her shoulders and glares right back. When Derek’s eyes go liquid with heat, Stiles refuses to let her legs wobble tellingly. 

“Right,” she says, leaning closer to the other girl. “I asked you before and I’ll ask you again. What did you do to Erica Reyes?”

Derek purses her lips, eyes somehow narrowing even further, and says, “I didn’t do anything to her. I didn’t do anything to any of those girls. Hate to break it to you, Nancy Drew, but you’ve got the wrong woman.”

.

Initially, Allison had been hesitant to leave Stiles alone in a room with a possible mass-murdering psychopath. She’d only relented when Lydia had swanned into the room, taken one look at Derek tied to a chair, and sighed, “I should have known.”

Once it came out that Lydia, as a hunter’s best friend, was in the know about the things that went bump in the night, she’d put Allison’s fears to rest by pressing a molotov cocktail into Stiles’ hands. An actual molotov cocktail. Just one little lighter to the end and presto, killed it with fire.

Scott had been harder to convince, fully prepared to crash on Der— on Erica’s bed for the next week. But Stiles had snorted at him, and said, “If I can’t protect myself with a molotov cocktail, what the hell are you going to be able to do?”

“Did you know that werewolves can go without food for weeks?” Derek tells her that night, once everyone is gone and Stiles is trying to get some much-needed sleep. Her voice is just as poisonously sweet as it was when Stiles first confronted her. Right now, Stiles doesn’t want to hear it.

“No,” she drawls, yawning hugely and rolling over. She makes a grab for her trusty pillow and thunks it down on top of her head. “Tell me more.”

There’s a smirk in Derek’s voice when she replies, “I could, you know. I could tell you everything there is to know about being a werewolf. Sate that curious little thirst for knowledge of yours. So, how about it?”

Stiles feels a twinge, a darting spark of curiosity. “Would you tell me what you did to Erica?”

“I told you I didn’t do it.” 

Now Derek just sounds frustrated.

Stiles yawns again. “Then nope. I can wait.”

.

Stiles dreams that night. She dreams of something heavy dragging beneath her bed. The pattern of scales against the floor. She dreams of yellow reptilian eyes peering up at her from over the edge. She dreams great rivers of black blood that clogs her throat, thick and viscous.

And all the while, a girl in a white night dress sits across from her, crying.

When Stiles turns to look at her, dying, drowning in blood, the girl morphs into a different girl, older, with a very familiar pair of eyes.

The girl screams.

Stiles wakes to the feel of Derek’s eyes on her.

.

She has the dream again the next night, and the one after that.

“Maybe you ate something weird,” Scott tells her. They’re sitting at the edge of the soccer field, supposedly for the privacy that it affords them. Mostly though, it’s so Stiles can surreptitiously check out Malia’s legs. Sadly, they aren’t doing much for her right now.

“Once again, Scott, I did not recently partake in hallucinogens,” Stiles sighs, tucking her legs beneath her. On the field, Malia passes the ball to another girl. This one is just as sweaty as Malia, but not half so attractive. Which is fortunate, because Stiles now has three ill-advised crushes. She really doesn’t need another one.

They both watch the summer society kick the ball around some more, half-heartedly cheering when Malia scores a goal.

“Do you think Derek’s doing something werewolf-y to you?”

“No, it’s not her,” Stiles says immediately. She’d considered the idea at first, but the sheer horror in Derek’s expression every time Stiles has woken up gasping quickly dissuaded her of the notion. Not even the best actress could fake that kind of worry. So far, Derek’s been quick to mask it, but it’s still there.

Scott tilts his head. “How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“If you say so, bro.” Scott shrugs. Again, the silence stretches comfortably between them. Quietly, they watch scantily clad girls run across the field, kicking balls at each other. It makes Stiles long for the days that she and Scott spent their high school years playing lacrosse. They weren’t very good at it, but they had fun. Even if Scott did go through more inhalers then than he had for the entire duration of their childhood.

“So hey,” Scott starts, a good ten minutes later, after the teams have dumped buckets of water on each other. “I think I have a girlfriend.”

Stiles blinks away from the sight of Malia’s shirt clinging to her chest. “Wait, what?”

Scott ducks his head, blushing. A bug of unknown origin crawls across his ear. Stiles plucks it off. “Yeah, Kira. After Derek scared her off that day, I’ve been seeing her everywhere, so we met up at the library. We’ve got a date next Friday.”

“Dude,” Stiles replies, with feeling. “That’s awesome.”

“Yeah,” Scott grins back. “It totally is.”

.

When Stiles gets home that night after a grueling three hour lecture, Derek is watching Guardians of the Galaxy on her laptop.

“How did you even get that?” Stiles asks curiously, dumping her books on the bed and flopping down next to them. “You’re tied to a chair.”

Derek looks at her. 

“Werewolves have telekinesis,” she deadpans.

Stiles snorts, amused despite herself. “Do not.”

Derek raises an eyebrow at her, and says, pointedly, “Who knows more about werewolves do you think? The girl playing good cop/bad cop with one or the person who is, in fact, a werewolf?”

“You’re not telekinetic. Or psychic. How did you really get that laptop out?”

Derek smirks at her and shrugs. “Lydia came by for my midday interrogation. She said I looked bored out of my skull, and took pity on me.”

Stiles eyes her dubiously. “Lydia doesn’t take pity on anyone.” 

The smile that Derek flashes her way is saccharine sweet. “She does for me.”

.

“Oh c’mon,” Stiles hisses, fumbling around in her backpack. In it she finds two textbooks, a tampon half out of the wrapper, two incredibly worn condoms, a dozen pens, and half a pack of gum. No keys though. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Having trouble there, Miss Stilinski?” 

Stiles blinks and spins around, cursing when her backpack lands on her toes.

The voice is smooth like velvet, and the man it belongs to looks the part. Slicked back hair, piercing eyes, smarmy smile, and a fancy charcoal suit; he practically screams 50 Shades of Date Rape. 

“I have mace,” Stiles declares loudly. It’s not strictly speaking true. She does have mace. And a rape whistle. She’s even the proud owner of a pair of those cute but lethal cat ear things. They all just happen to be attached to her keychain. Which is still missing.

The man chuckles and edges closer. A chill goes down her spine. That is not the correct response to a woman who is clearly already on the defensive.

“Do you really?” he purrs, taking another step forward. Stiles takes a step backwards in response, her back thumping up against her jeep. God, why did she even take the stupid thing today? She could have easily walked. But no, she’d wanted to get a little extra rest after Derek kept her up half the night singing the song that never ends.

“Yes,” she hisses. “Now you should probably take three biiiig steps backwards, Mr. Gray.”

The man laughs, a glint of humor appearing in his eyes. “Oh, I like you,” he tells her, obligingly taking three steps backwards. It doesn’t really make Stiles feel much better.

“How do you know my name?” she demands, fists clenched at her sides.

The man smiles at her. Stiles thinks it's supposed to come off as suave, maybe with a hint of debonair flair, but all it does is make Stiles more nervous. She could run. Abandon her jeep to the fate of a dozen tickets and go. It would be the smarter option, but Stiles is curious. 

“I know many things about you, Miss Stilinski,” the man tells her, smile still in place. “I know the classes you’re taking this semester, what dorm you’re living in, and that your best friend is one Mr. Scott McCall.”

“Creepy.” Stiles has never been the best at texting while her phone is still hidden in her pocket, but this seems like an appropriate time to try. She just hopes that she selected Scott’s number and not her Great Aunt Milly. “I hate to break it to you, man, but Twilight and 50 Shades of Suck may have given you the wrong impression here, because stalking isn’t actually in nowadays.”

“I also,” the man adds, his smile going menacing. “Know that you’ve been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Oh?” she breathes, heart ratcheting up. She swipes her thumb over the send button and does her best to retreat into herself when the man takes three quick steps forward, hand darting into her pocket. 

He’s so close Stiles can smell him now; a disconcerting mixture of wood smoke, sandalwood, and something coppery. 

The man cocks an eyebrow at her as his fingers wrap around her phone, dragging it out of her jeans slowly, knuckles dragging against the inside of her thigh. She shudders, breath going tight and uneven.

He shows it to her. 

Not sent, she thinks, staring at the long line of gibberish on the screen. Her heart sinks like a stone. The man is still too close; she can feel the heat of his body where he’s kept them pressed together. Thigh, forearm, hip.

“Get away from me.”

He chuckles and takes a half a step back, with obvious reluctance. Now that he’s not touching her, Stiles can think more clearly. This man has cornered her in a dark parking lot, taken her phone, and admitted to stalking her. This is the time for her to knee him in the balls and make a run for it.

“I think that you’ll find it in your best interest to leave well enough alone, my dear,” he says to her, softly. 

“Was that a threat?”

“No,” he answers with a shrug. “This is a threat.”

Slowly, carefully, his hand tightens around her phone. It crumbles easily, too easily, in his grip. No human could break a phone like that. 

His eyes flash a clear, dark red.

Stiles has a sneaking suspicion that she doesn’t want to know the difference between this man’s eyes and Derek’s blue ones. Her heart must skip a beat, because the man laughs, brushing the shattered remnants of her phone from his palms. He leans in again, and this time, she can’t hold back the flinch at the feel of his hand brushing against hers. She squeezes her eyes shut.

The man presses something into her hands; cold and jagged metal. Her keys.

“Now, Miss Stilinski,” the man says. “Have I made myself clear?”

Her entire body is shaking. She has never been this terrified in her entire life. All she wants to do is get on the next plane home and never look back.

“Crystal,” she whispers.

His hand comes to rest against her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing a tear away. “Don’t cry, Little Red,” he tells her, stroking her cheek once before pulling away. “Go back to your studies, forget Erica Reyes, and the big bad wolf won’t have to gobble you up.”

.

“You smell like my uncle.”

Stiles is still shaking. Her hands didn’t stop the entire drive home, and honestly, she’s just happy that the panic attack had held back until she got herself out of that parking lot. Derek’s words don’t even register, she just slides down the door, until she’s a crumpled heap at the bottom.

She can’t breathe.

“Hey, are you all right?”

There’s a faint hint of alarm to Derek’s voice now, but Stiles’ doesn’t care, because she can’t breathe.

You would think that after this many years, Stiles would have learned to control them. It doesn’t work that way. No matter how many times she tells herself that it’s okay, you can do this, nothing’s wrong, it still hits her just as hard.

“Stiles.”

Control. It’s always about control. But she can’t control this, never has been. She just has to close her eyes and wait for it to be over.

“Stiles.”

There’s a great crash somewhere in the room, so loud that it makes Stiles wince, trying to edge back even further, but the door doesn’t stop being any less solid. A hand touches her temple, her hair, and unflinchingly, Stiles presses into the touch. She wants her dad. She wants her mom. The fog is unrelenting, her chest tight as her lungs refuse to do their job. Everything is hyper-focused and not focused at all, and she hates it.

She doesn’t know if it’s minutes or hours before the fog starts to lift, her lashes fluttering as she finally takes note of the warmth pressed into her side and the cool hand hesitantly stroking her hair. Stiles blinks hazily as the room comes back into focus. In the middle of the room, the chair lies shattered, loops and loops of rope and scattered purple flowers around it.

“Derek?” Stiles asks. The hand in her hair stills. 

“I really didn’t kill Erica,” Derek tells her with a sigh. Stiles can feel Derek’s breath against her cheek, but she doesn’t turn to look. Coming down from a panic attack is like coming down from the worst high ever. It takes time, water, and more often than not, sleep. But failing that, keeping her eyes focused on just one thing helps. 

“You’re so stubborn,” Derek grouses as her hand hesitantly resumes its path through Stiles’ hair. “I thought for sure that I’d kill you before that first week was up, but you… you get under the skin.”

“That’s me,” Stiles chuckles weakly. “Perfectly parasitic.”

Derek snorts and shakes her head. “Maybe. But it’s not always bad. Or at least it wasn’t until you kept me tied to a chair like a common dog.”

Stiles winces. “Sorry about that.”

She lets the silence linger and tries to get her thoughts in order. This could be a trick. A trap. But somehow, she doesn’t think so. This is the Derek who was horrified each and every time Stiles woke from her dreams. This is a newer, gentler Derek. Someone so hidden behind layers and layers of grumbly masks that it still might not be the real thing.

“In your defense,” Derek admits with another sigh. “You were right about me being a werewolf. Why wouldn’t you also be right about the girls?”

“But if you didn’t—” Stiles starts, finally shifting her gaze away from the chair.

“Shh,” Derek whispers, lifting a finger to Stiles’ lips. Briefly, Stiles’ temper flares to life. She wants to bite that finger. Just as quickly though, it dies a miserable death. She’s too tired for anger right now. “I’ll tell you. But you have to promise to keep quiet until the end.”

Mutely, Stiles nods. 

Derek takes a deep breath, and starts. “Ten years ago, my uncle murdered my sister.”

The story in its entirety takes a little over an hour to tell. Dutifully, Stiles keeps silent, even when she really doesn’t want to.

First, there was Paige. Kind, sweet, intelligent. Young love. Tragedy. A good start to any story.

Then there was Kate Argent. Fire. More tragedy and only three survivors to share it between.

The fire twisted them all, grief and hate combining into a singular awful monster. The hunted became the hunters until that toxic mixture of hate and grief went septic and someone made a mistake. A mistake, Derek says, like it excuses the murder of his sister. 

Kate Argent is dead. The family’s murderer avenged, but at the cost of Laura’s life. 

Ten years.

Ten years Derek’s been following her uncle, her alpha, because he’s the only family she has left. 

A year ago, Peter had gotten it into his head to start building a pack. He’d used Derek to draw them in, used her to seduce them over to the dark side, and when they had a pack, he hadn’t stopped. He’d kept going, obsessed with the idea of power, until he’d made a new discovery.

A tree. Just a tree. A powerful, evil tree.

Derek tells her about the sacrifices. About the girls. She insists that she really doesn’t know what happened to Erica, that Peter’s been keeping her at arm's length since he’d acquired a bigger pack. Best case scenario, Erica’s a werewolf. Worst case, she was tied to a tree and gutted like an animal.

When Derek is done, Stiles sits in silence for a few minutes, her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Stiles,” Derek says, reaching out to touch her knee.

Stiles flinches away. “You can go now.”

Derek blinks at her, hurt, and Stiles breathes out an aggravated sigh. She scrubs a hand through her hair in frustration and digs the heels of her palms into her eyes. “Look, I believe you, okay? I do. So you can go. I’m not going to keep you tied up anymore, so just… go back to your werewolf lair with your creeper uncle. I’ll figure things out.”

“But Stiles, you have to know what the dreams mean—”

Stiles barks out a loud laugh, tinged around the edges with hysteria. “Trust me, Derek. I know what the dreams mean. Virgin sacrifice, that’s me.”

“It’s not safe for you here,” Derek insists, tugging at Stiles arms now. “I can protect you—”

Stiles scoffs and tears her hands away. “You? Derek, you couldn’t save those girls. You couldn’t even save your own family. Just,” She inhales raggedly through her nose. Too far. Even for her. She doesn’t need to look at Derek right now to know that one was not okay. “One night, okay? If you really want to indulge in your own personal brand of stockholm syndrome, then by all means, come back tomorrow. But give me this night, okay?”

She doesn’t watch Derek leave.

That night, she dreams.

Stiles lets her go and Derek leaves, comes back with a talisman for the dreams, and tucks it into Stiles’ palm. “It’ll protect you,” she says, and leaves it at that. 

Lydia is taken by Peter and comes back majorly mindfucked with a bite on her side

“But I’m not a virgin,” she points out wryly and Derek just kind of shrugs and says that part doesn’t matter so much anymore. She didn’t become pack so Peter’s going to use her as a sacrifice to the nemeton. Blah blah blah stuff happens and at some point Stiles gets possessed by Peter and goes uncle badtouch while wearing Stiles’ body, blackmailing Derek into helping him by not helping. Peter takes Scott and Stiles wakes up.

Things go a bit differently at the nemeton, when Stiles and Allison head out to the tree using Lydia as a homing device. Derek shows up with his minuscule pack of loyal wolves and they kind of kill Peter on the tree. Whoops. But Derek’s the alpha now and Scott’s a werewolf and maybe, just maybe she and Stiles go back to their room and sit there quietly for awhile before Stiles sighs and crosses to Derek’s bed, easily sliding onto her lap.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks, hands going to Stiles’ hips to steady her as she teeters.

Stiles grins, teeth flashing in the dark, and says, “Something I should have done three months ago.”

And kisses her.


End file.
